God Help Us
by Laerkstrein
Summary: Jamie watches the Germans move through the grass, sees them laugh and dance as they take to their spoils, and it makes him sick. One, he notes, returns to the treeline with a strange look upon his face, holds in his hands a small leather-bound book, the sort that causes the major's heart to leap into his throat.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own _War Horse_, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to their respective owners. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.

**God Help Us**

**A/N: **Set following the cavalry charge.

* * *

It's with a sigh and a scowl that he steps off, stares blankly at the blade he's let sink into the earth. The Germans seem rather satisfied with themselves, with the fact that they've outwitted and outgunned an entire British cavalry. They hold fast to Jamie, but he makes no move to resist, does not wish to take his chances with these people. Like himself and his men, they fight for their country, but it is still not the same. To his eyes, they are little more than the enemy to be taken down beneath His Majesty's soldiers. Perhaps, were this not war, he would think rather differently.

Sadly, it is not so.

Topthorn snorts, shifts on his feet and nudges the major with his snout as though he knows that Jamie is about to go away. He looks to the beast and says nothing, ignores the Germans as they chatter on behind his back, dragging whinnying horses by the reins. Some of them are forced to their knees, to lie down as the barrels of guns are pressed to their foreheads. Jamie flinches, reaches up to clap his hands about Topthorn's ears and steady the both of them as the bullets pop out, leave the great and wounded beasts dead upon the dirt. The major swallows, feels the fluttering beat of his heart as it tries to escape. If only he could send it home to his mother, his sister and brother, let them know that, for now at least, he has survived. For he doubts very much that, should he even be permitted to write letters in the camps, they'll ever make their way home.

The horse is warm, his snout moving beneath the soldier's arm as if feeling his tension, his fear. What had happened to the others, to his friends? What had become of Charlie, of James? The major opens his eyes, turns to see as the Germans take to the field, dragging wounded captives into the trees and pilfering the pockets of those who did not survive. He isn't sure what would be better for his dear chaps, death on the inglorious field of battle, or life in the miseries of a filthy camp.

Jamie watches the Germans move through the grass, sees them laugh and dance as they take to their spoils, and it makes him sick. One, he notes, returns to the treeline with a strange look upon his face, holds in his hands a small leather-bound book, the sort that causes the major's heart to leap into his throat.

He steps away from Topthorn to approach the man, feels the soldiers as they try to hold him back. Jamie struggles, shoves one to the ground and ends up with a gun held to his head. He raises his hands steadily, points to the book.

"May I?"

The boy, who can't be any older than twenty, takes a few steps towards him, stares at the thing in his hand and offers it to him as though he's understood. The major nearly drops at the sight, realizes that James is dead, for there is a hole through the book's covers, blood having stained the pages upon which he would so fondly map out his world. He flips through it, sees the little drawings in the corners, the scrawled writing that has always been impossible to decipher. They would tease the captain in the camps, tell him that he'd be better off as a doctor than a soldier, as he knows only how to write in the bizarre language of chicken scratch.

Jamie chokes, runs his hand across a page with a familiar face, a small photograph having been tucked so gently into the pages, one corner missing from where the bullet grazed it. The captain had been so proud of this sketch, that of his wife, had always told Jamie that, once he finished the portrait of his new baby girl, born a mere three months before the call to war, he'd tear the pages out and mail them home.

The major nods his thanks to the young soldier, holds tightly to the book and asks if it wouldn't be too much to ask for him to keep it. The man doesn't seem to care, has an impassive look about his face as his name is called, his head turns, and he walks away without a word.

One of the German superiors gives him a shove then, insisting that he walk on and not make a fuss. Jamie says nothing, looks to Topthorn and forces a smile. Poor thing will be worked to death, he's sure.

Fingering the book Jamie bows his head, removes his hat and bites his lip.

"God help us," the major whispers as the soldiers lead him along. "God help us."


End file.
